Page 7 of Knotting the Firefighters

His hands drift lower with deliberate patience, each inch of movement a private revelation. The rough calluses of his fingertips—earned from years of ranch work—create exquisite friction against the silky fabric of my apron as they trace the curve of my waist. When they reach the flare of my hips, they hesitate, a question in their stillness before continuing their journey. His touch leaves a trail of warmth that blooms beneath my skin like wildflowers after rain.

The morning light filtering through the kitchen window catches the dust motes dancing in the air around us, turning them to gold as they spiral in our shared breath. Time stretches, elastic and honey-slow, as his hands finally settle at the tops of my thighs where the mint-green skirt creates a boundary—fabric bunched slightly beneath his grip, the hem riding up just enough to make my pulse quicken.

I feel the weight of his consideration in the slight pressure of his fingertips, the way they curl ever so slightly into the soft flesh where thigh meets hip. The boundary of fabric between his skin and mine suddenly feels both impossibly thin and frustratingly substantial. His thumbs trace small, hypnotic circles just below the hem, each rotation sending ripples of sensation up my spine.

The kitchen's morning quiet amplifies every sound—the soft catch in my breath, the barely audible rustle of fabric as he shifts behind me, the distant ticking of the clock that seems to slow with each passing second. The scent of pine and bourbon intensifies as his body temperature rises, mingling with the lingering aroma of coffee and the sweet vanilla notes of my skin.

A sound escapes my throat—starting low and breaking into something vulnerable and wanting, vibrating between us in the still air. It's embarrassingly close to a moan, raw and honest ina way words could never be. The sound seems to hover in the space between us, a confession I hadn't meant to make.

Against the sensitive skin of my neck, I feel his lips curve upward. His smile presses into me, not just the physical sensation but something deeper—pride, satisfaction, desire—all communicated through that simple change in the contour of his mouth. His beard scratches gently against my skin, the slight sting a counterpoint to the softness of his lips.

His chest expands against my back as he draws in a deep breath, pulling my scent deeper into himself.

The expansion presses me more firmly against him, a reminder of how perfectly we fit together, how easily our bodies communicate what our words dance around. I lean back further, surrendering another fraction of weight into his support, trusting him to hold me steady as desire makes my knees less reliable.

The moment hangs between us, suspended in amber light and shared breath—a perfect tableau of restraint and want, of boundaries considered but not yet crossed, of friendship teetering on the edge of something far more consuming.

"Such a horny Alpha," I breathe, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to breathless.

"Can you blame me?" His thumbs trace circles on my thighs, each pass going slightly higher. "You're standing here in this fucking apron, this skirt that should be illegal, looking like every wet dream I've ever had about domestic bliss with a side of sin."

"It's not even short!" I huff, though the protest loses effectiveness when his touch makes me press back against him instinctively. "I just have a curvy ass and thighs that?—"

His hands slide back to grip said ass, squeezing with possession that makes my breath catch.

"This ass that I enjoy very much," he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest into my back. "This ass that haunts my dreams and makes me walk funny at inappropriate times."

Laughter bubbles up despite myself, bright and genuine in a way I rarely manage these days.

"Take your hard cock elsewhere, Hayes. I'm busy organizing my mug collection."

He groans like I've physically wounded him, his forehead dropping to my shoulder in defeat. But he doesn't let go or dare step back. He just holds me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he loosens his grip.

I turn in his arms, having to crane my neck to meet his eyes properly. The height difference between us—my 5'5" to his 6'3"—should make me feel small, vulnerable.

Instead, it makes me feel protected, even when I know that's a dangerous illusion.

"Look at this collection," I say, gesturing at the shelves with pride I don't have to fake. "Forty-seven unique pieces from?—"

"That's not a collection, Wendy." He lets go of me to crosses his arms, leaning against the counter behind us with that particular brand of cowboy swagger that shouldn't work with his firefighter build but absolutely does. "That's an addiction. An intervention-worthy hoarding situation."

I have to gasp to make an exaggerated attempt of feigning hurt, walking over to the collection to emphasize my grand beauties my gesturing with my hands from top to bottom.

"Do you know people travel the world specifically to collect mugs?" I counter, moving closer with intentional sass in my step. "There are entire communities dedicated to?—"

"Mhmm." His eyes are definitely not on my face, tracking the sway of my hips with singular focus.

"You're not listening." I reach him, having to go up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck, bringing our facesclose enough that I can see the amber flecks in his whiskey-brown eyes.

"Nope." His hands find my waist, thumbs brushing the skin where my top has ridden up slightly. "Not even a little bit."

I pout—an exaggerated, theatrical thing that makes his eyes darken further.

"You need to stop being so attractive," he grumbles, his accent thicker now, more Montana ranch than California firefighter. "Can't think straight when you look at me like that."

"I'm wearing normal clothes?—"

"Vintage clothes," he corrects, like the distinction matters.